Flip Side
by DangerMouse
Summary: Gettin' down with the brotherhood! A little bit 'o slash, a little bit 'o angst, a little bit 'o humor, a whole lotta story. UPDATED: Chapter five is UP! Pietro talks to himself, Todd talks period, and Fred's cat gets a name!!
1. Chapter One

flipside1

**Notes from the Author**:  
Hi folks. This is a Lance/Pietro slash fic I started way back in Feb. I've posted it to a few mailing lists and of course it's on my webpage, but I've been getting piss-poor amounts of feedback so I thought I'd go ahead and try it here. I'm this close - _this close_ - to trashing the whole thing. Anyway, I'd like to know what you think. Please don't flame me - I'm walking a very fine line with this story as it is. Might be a little out of character, but hey, you gotta figure, they've go noone to impress when they (The Brotherhood that is) are all by themselves. I'll post all I got right now here, but if you wanna go to my webpage and look at it there (I'm very proud of this webpage, yes I am), the URL is:  
[http://www.geocities.com/xmen042][1]  
Any way, male/male love on the way. Get it while it's hot. (Well, the story isn't just about those two - we sorta delve into everybody's psyche, but I'm getting ahead of myself).   
READ ON!

"Flip Side"

Chapter One 

By: The Great Immortal, DangerMouse

Xavier's children had a mansion. A mansion that was stocked with a fully equipped kitchen, a large swimming pool, high-tech training equipment, a very impressive jet, trees, grass, and lots of space where the mutants that lived there could be themselves.

The Brotherhood had a house.

Now, that's not to say it wasn't a nice house. It was a decent two-story building with a nice façade, slightly Victorian with a touch of 1970s neo-classical added on for good measure. It had five bedrooms (well, really it was four bedrooms and an attic) and two and a half bathrooms. The kitchen was relatively large given the size of the home, which meant that the dining room and living room were really one space, only separated by a creative furniture arrangement. There were hardwood floors throughout the home, although they were slightly worn and discolored in some places ("No splinters that way, " Todd had remarked once). The paint was chipped, the ceiling cracked, the roof leaked some, the carpets were a little stained, and none of the furniture dated past 1985. The plumbing and wiring were also a little messed up, resulting in yelps of pain coming from the showers whenever somebody flushed and fuses being blown on a regular basis. The house was surrounded on all sides by neighboring families in their own homes, families that could be very nosy at times, meaning the members of The Brotherhood were required to keep a low profile.

Regardless of these shortcomings, it was still a house and that was something the majority of its residents had never had before in their short lives.

* * * * * *

"Whisk briskly until a slight froth forms on top of the liquid mixture, slowly reducing the temperature to two-hundred-fifty degrees..." Lance muttered to himself, reading the cookbook in front of him as he stood by the stove. The Brotherhood rotated the cooking and chores. Unfortunately, it seemed that anytime one of them had dinner duty, it always ended up being some kind of takeout. So, on a whim, Lance decided to actually *cook* something. He was finding to it be a lot more difficult then he imagined it would be, although oddly enjoyable and satisfying. Lance was making pretty good progress when the light above him suddenly flickered and popped, plunging the kitchen into semi-darkness. 

Lance cursed. Then he cursed some more. He barely noticed the house beginning to shake.

"Lance! Cut that out!" Pietro shouted quickly from upstairs. "The foundation can'take it!"

"Then come in here and change the light bulb in the kitchen!" Lance snapped back.

"Do't y'self!" came the rushed reply.

"I can't! The food will burn!"

Pietro said something just out of range of Lance's hearing, but the brown-haired youth had a feeling whatever was said probably consisted of around four-letters. A sudden 'whoosh' of air rushed past him and the light was almost instantly back on.

"Happy now?" Pietro asked, abruptly appearing beside him, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was full of irritation, but his eyes betrayed twinkling amusement.

"Very," Lance said with a leering smile, then turned back to whisking his food.

"What's that?" Pietro asked, leaning over the stovetop and sniffing the contents of the saucepan.

"Dinner," was Lance's only reply. Pietro rolled his eyes.

"I know that, you idiot. I meant what *kind* of dinner."

"It's going to be seafood Alfredo in a light cream sauce."

"I don't eat meat," Pietro reminded him. "That includes seafood. And I also don't eat cream, milk, or eggs."

"I'm quite of aware of that, you little vegan tree-hugger," Lance replied, first removing the sauce from the burner then turning to face the fast mutant turned food critic. "Soymilk, flour, and salt," he began pointing to the sauce, yet never taking his eyes off Pietro, "and totally organic pasta," he continued, pointing to a covered pot on the back burner.

"And what about the seafood?" Pietro murmured, purposely keeping his speech and movements at a 'normal' pace, taking a step closer to Lance and putting his own hands on his friend's shoulders.

Lance leaned forward, allowing Pietro to hook his arms around his neck. "Artificial soy meat," Lance whispered, breathing into the silver-haired boy's ear. "You think we can afford real crab meat? We can't even afford fake crab meat." Lance stepped closer to Pietro, putting his hands around his waist, then tilted his head back to look in his friend's eyes. Pietro grinned at him.

"You'll never get Todd to eat that," he told Lance, "and it won't be enough food for Fred." Lance raised an eyebrow.

"Who said I was cooking this for them? There's about two dozen burgers from the fast food joint in the fridge with their names on them," Lance replied. "This is just for you and me." Pietro blinked at him for a moment then smiled.

"You're too good for me," he said softly, moving forward once again, this time embracing Lance in a relatively strong and passionate hug.

"I know," was Lance's only reply, enjoying the feeling of his friend's body pressed against his own.

"And your pasta is burning," Pietro said evenly, being able to see the stovetop in his position.

"Ack!" was Lance's only reply.

* * * * * *

After Todd and Fred's initial complaints at seeing what they called 'eco-food' and a 'girly-meal' respectively, and once they had been placated by Lance dropping the re-warmed burgers on the table, dinner proceeded smoothly. There was a little less conversation since Rouge had left their group, not because Rouge was a great talker, but she did make for an interesting conversation piece for at least the two and a half straight teenage boys in the house (Lance being a bi-sexual). As for Pietro, he didn't talk much anyway, with or without the girl. Still, the loss of her presence was keenly felt all around.

"I wonder what they're eating for dinner right now," Fred said, breaking a silence that had fallen over the group. He was munching thoughtfully over his fifteenth hamburger. "Do you think they have a private chef in that mansion?"

"Probably," Todd replied, his tongue snaking out across the table to grab the ketchup bottle. He turned the bottle over his burger and patiently waited for the ketchup to slide out. "They probably get all their foods catered. Big steaks, fresh breakfasts, fried potatoes, rotisserie chicken..."

"Stop! You're making me hungry!" Fred complained.

"Breathing makes you hungry," Lance muttered under his breath, twirling his pasta on his fork. He took a bite and smiled. Man, did it come out good! He glanced over at Pietro who smiled back. The silver-haired boy had already finished his meal - no matter how much he tried to slow himself down, he still managed to finish first every time. Still, he was polite enough to remain seated until everyone was done. Besides, he had other ways to amuse himself.

"Yeah," Todd continued, as though he had never been interrupted. "In a fancy place like that, you can bet they only get the best of the best. Not re-heated day old hamburgers like us."

"You could have eaten the pasta Lance made," Pietro said evenly, picking up a fork and twirling it. Once again, he was speaking at what felt like a snail's pace for him. Lance raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing.

"I ain't eatin' no eco-food," Todd said with a glare at Pietro. "That crap tastes like cardboard."

Pietro didn't reply. Suddenly, Lance yelped and jumped up, his right knee slamming into the table. Both Fred and Todd jumped back at his sudden movement. Todd's burger dropped to the table in his surprise.

"You got a problem over there, rock boy?" Todd asked, sitting back on his haunches.

"No, no problem," Lance replied through gritted teeth, glaring over at Pietro, who was still calmly staring at the fork in his hand as though it was the most interesting thing in the world. "No problem at all."

Todd rolled his eyes towards the cracked ceiling then looked back down at the table to where his burger should have been. He blinked once at the empty spot then looked over at Fred, who was chewing slowly, his face completely innocent, his eyes averted to a spot on the wall. Todd sighed.

"Well, I guess I'm done," he said, not without shooting a withering glare in Fred's direction. He stood up and stretched, looking over at the clock that hung on the wall above the dining room table. "It's late. I should be heading home anyway." Lance and Pietro both stood up as Todd started to hop towards the front door.

"You could stay here, you know," Lance told him. Todd stopped and looked back at his three friends who were watching him with varying degrees of worry. The toad-boy felt slightly irked by this, yet touched at the same time. "I mean," Lance continued, stepping forward, "we've got plenty of room. Fred's got his room and Pietro and I are, well..." Lance trailed off, trying to make his words somewhat tactful.

"We're shacked up," Pietro responded quickly without a trace of embarrassment. Lance rubbed his forehead and looked at the floor, feeling his face flush slightly.

"Yeah, well, anyway," the rock-tumbler continued after a moment, looking back at Todd, "since Rouge's switched sides, her room is free and so is the attic space. It really wouldn't be a problem."

"Yeah I know," Todd replied after a minute. "But I really got to get home, you know?" He started to rub the back of his neck with his left hand, averting his gaze to the wall. "My mom's got her sickness. I need to make sure she eats and stuff. Thanks anyway, though."

"Well, you've got a key," Lance reminded him. Todd just nodded.

"Right," he said. "Check you later." Todd turned, opened the front door, and left the Brotherhood's home, hopping out into the dark street.

* * * * * *

Pietro was laying on his back on Lance's bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Lance had the biggest bedroom in the house. Todd didn't need a place to live, so when Mystique recruited Lance, he was the first one to need a home and, therefore, got first dibs on the rooms. Lance had taken the master bedroom, which was especially nice because it was connected to its own private bath. Later, Fred ended up taking the downstairs' bedroom ("I don't want to climb all those stairs!"), and when Pietro had first moved in, he took the room upstairs right next to Lance's. Rouge had lived down the hall from them, although she originally was staying in the attic. 

Pietro had been attracted to Lance from the moment he met him, but didn't dare make a move. After all, this was a person he was going to be living with and, by all means, appeared completely straight. Pietro felt himself smiling as he remembered the day Lance had proved him wrong. After he and Lance had gotten closer, Pietro had just moved into Lance's room, since he was spending every night in there anyway.

Everyone in the Brotherhood knew. Neither Fred, Todd, nor Rouge really cared one way or the other. Pietro reasoned to himself that when you've got such a big problem of being a mutant, being gay seemed like a pretty small thing indeed.

Of course, he still hadn't told his father yet.

Pietro was startled from his thoughts by Lance as he walked in the room, heaving a big sigh. The brown-haired youth slowly began stripping off his clothes, right down to his boxers. Then, he slid into bed next to Pietro, who turned on his side to look at his friend.

"What's up with you?" Lance asked after a minute. The question took Pietro completely by surprise.

"Pardon?"

"You've been slow all day," Lance explained. Pietro wrinkled his brow in confusion and Lance was hard-pressed not smile. Pietro was so cute when he did that. *Stay serious, Lance,* he thought to himself. *This is important.*

"What do you mean by 'slow,' exactly?" Pietro asked. Lance sighed.

"You know what I mean. The only thing I saw you do at super speed today was change that lightbulb. You even ate your dinner slower than usual. Not to mention the fact that I could understand practically everything you said, which is pretty rare."

Pietro drew his eyebrows together and shrugged, starting to turn away, but Lance caught him by the shoulder and held him still.

"Tell. Me," Lance said evenly. Now it was Pietro's turn to sigh.

"I didn't want to worry you, Lance," began the silver-haired young man, chewing on his lower lip. Lance swallowed hard and tried to focus on the conversation. That was another nervous habit of Pietro's he found absolutely stimulating. "You see, the past week or so, I've been getting these headaches... real bad... when I used my speed too much." Lance blinked.

"Pietro, that's terrible! Geez, man, you should talk to Mystique about that!" Lance started to sit up, but Pietro pulled him back down.

"No, it's alright. I changed that lightbulb for you today and it didn't hurt. I think I just need to do use my power in moderation." Pietro paused a moment, studying Lance's face. "You have the same problem, don't you?" Lance tried to nod and shake his head at the same time.

"Yes, I get headaches, but that's all part and parcel to my power. It's always been like that. But you've never had headaches before and let's face it, Pietro," Lance sat up, his eyes narrowing in concern, "I may not be a physicist, but I can't imagine how moving around at that speed can be good for your body. Don't you have problems with G-forces and stuff?"

Pietro tilted his head to the side. "You know... I never thought about that. I've never really noticed anything before. I could always just.. move."

They were silent for a moment, absorbing what had just passed between them. Could Pietro's power have the potential to cause him serious physical harm? Lance really didn't want to think about that, especially since his speed seemed almost second nature to Pietro, not to mention slightly uncontrollable. Pietro reached up and once again tugged Lance down towards him.

"Let's not worry about it right now. We can talk to Mystique later and I just won't use my powers unless it's absolutely necessary, alright?" he said, his eyes pleading. Finally, Lance nodded, although he was still lost in thought. The brown-haired youth rolled over onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

At which point, Pietro took the opportunity to straddle Lance's body and plant a firm, demanding kiss on his friend's rather unprepared mouth. Lance's eyes opened wide for brief second, then he closed them, losing himself in the sensation. After what seemed like an eternity (yet somehow still felt too brief), Pietro broke off the kiss, allowing them both to catch their breaths. The speed-demon grinned.

"What is with you and surprise attacks today?" Lance asked, slightly out of breath. "I'm mean, between this and you groping me under the dining room table this evening, I don't think I've ever seen you so... amorous!" Pietro's grin just got wider.

"I did tell you I've been restricting the use of my power all week," Pietro began, leaning down to nibble on Lance's ear. "I've just got all this pent up energy and I don't know what do to with it. Any ideas?" he asked coyly. Suddenly, Pietro found himself on his back, their positions reversed, Lance grinning down at him.

"One or two," Lance replied, taking Pietro's wrists and pinning them above his head with one large hand. Pietro liked big hands.

"You rock my world, Lance," he said with a grin. Lance groaned.

"I'll pretend you didn't say that."

* * * * * *

-Meanwhile-

Todd entered his house, trying to be quiet. The door wasn't locked, which bothered him. He and his mother didn't live in the safest neighborhood. He took a quick scan of the living room and sighed. Yep, the TV was gone again. Dammit.

Todd turned and locked the door, then turned to gaze around his disheveled house. It was unbelievable. When he had left this morning, the place had been reasonably clean. Now, it looked like a tornado had gone through it.

"Todd? Is that you?" came a woman's voice down the hall. It was a grating, plaintive voice. It made Todd's skin crawl.

"Yeah, Mom. It's me," Todd replied, hopping down the hallway to his mother's bedroom. She was sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed. Todd felt a shiver go through him.

He had been born when his mother was only sixteen years old. Todd never knew anything about his father, except his last name of course. That jackass took off before Todd had even been born. Now, only thirty-one, his mother looked over fifty. Her skin was sallow and covered in wrinkles, damaged from years of nicotine and alcohol abuse. Her eyes seemed to have this permanent yellow tint and never really looked directly at any one thing. Todd had helped her dress and fixed her hair like he did every morning, but, like she was every night, she was half out of her clothes and her gray-streaked hair was an absolute mess. She had a half-burned cigarette in one hand and a bottle of booze in the other. With a deep sigh, Todd walked over to her, helping her sit up a little straighter.

"Did you eat anything today, Mom?" Todd asked. The woman scratched her head and took another drag off her cigarette.

"I'm thirsty, Todd. Go into the kitchen and get me something to drink," she told him sternly, looking somewhere over to his left.

"Water okay?" he asked, hoping.

"A beer."

Todd sighed again. It wasn't worth arguing with her. If he didn't get her what she wanted, she just stay up all night screaming and moaning. Todd hopped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, retrieved the beer, and hopped back to his mother. Maybe she could drink this and pass out again. Then, Todd decided, he could put her to bed and try to get some sleep himself.

He sat next to his mother, watching her down the alcohol, listening to her nonsensical ravings, his expression hard.

This wasn't going to be him.

It was never going to be him.

Copyright S. Califf, April, 2001 

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/xmen042



	2. Chapter Two

flipside2

_And now it's time for...._  
**Amazin' Author Notes!:**  
Hmmm... still here I see. Thanks! *suddenly feels better* This chapter tries to answer the immortal question - How is The Brotherhood of Mutants Like a Can of Green Beans? (*slashy warning* - gets a little heavy at the end - nothing graphic. Well, maybe a little graphic *grins foolishly*).

"Flip Side"

Chapter Two 

By: The Great Immortal, DangerMouse

Fred J. Dukes, also known as The Blob, was sitting at the kitchen table in the old house occupied by the members of the Brotherhood of Mutants. He squinted in concentration at the book in front of him, his face covered in a light sheen of sweat. His ears were bright red and his knuckles were white as they clutched the text.

"I can't DO this Lance," Fred said through clenched teeth, his voice filled with frustration, directed toward the brown-haired youth occupying the chair next to him.

"Yes, you can, Freddy," Lance replied. "Now keep going. Chapter Five, start right here." Lance pointed to the page, his voice filled with conviction. Fred took a deep breath and cleared his throat, making a sound similar to a growl.

"'Tom... woke... Harry the.... next... morning with... his... u...u...' Dammit!" Fred swore, making a move to throw the book across the room. However, Lance's firm hand on his arm made him pause in his actions. As a sort of compromise, Fred let the book 'thud' down to the table and ran a pudgy hand through his hair. "This is stupid," Fred began, shaking his head. "No, I'M stupid. I can't even read a damn kid's book!"

"You are NOT stupid," Lance said, staring hard at Fred. "You've already read up to chapter five."

"It took me over a week!" Fred said loudly, his left eye twitching slightly.

"That's beside the point," Lance retorted. "The point is, you did read it and you're getting much better. Reading takes practice Fred."

"Well... well... SCREW THIS!" Fred roared, starting to stand up. "I don't NEED this crap anyway."

"The HELL you don't!" Lance yelled back, his limited patience quickly running out. He closed his eyes briefly and gave the ground a small shake, causing Fred to lose his balance and fall back into his chair. 

"Now you are going to SIT HERE and READ this DAMN BOOK if it takes US ALL YEAR," Lance continued, jabbing his pointer finger towards Fred's face with every yelled word, causing the large adolescent to cringe. "I've put TOO MUCH work into this the past three weeks for you to give up on me now, GOT IT?"

"Yeah, yeah! Geez, Lance! Calm down! I'll read it, I'll read it!" Fred said, holding his hands in a warding gesture. He reached down and picked up the book.

"Good," Lance said with a nod and a smile, retaking his seat. "Because, dammit, we're gonna get you reading on grade level if it kills us both."

Fred swallowed audibly.

* * * * * *

Pietro leaned on the shopping cart in front of him, trying to stifle a yawn. He drummed his fingers on the cart's handle, the digits of his hand moving so fast they were a blur, the tapping a steady hum. He abruptly ceased his nervous movement when a middle-aged woman gave him an odd-glare as she rolled her own cart past him.

"Afternoon," Pietro told her, his voice oozing with false sentiment, flashing her a bright smile. The woman's glare deepened and she shook her head, speeding up to get away from him. Pietro chuckled.

"Something funny, Maximoff?"

Pietro turned his head and saw Todd hopping towards him, a case of cola under his arm. He smiled at the younger mutant and shrugged.

"Nothing really," Pietro replied. "Just thinking." He looked at the soda as Todd dumped it in the cart. "Diet?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"For Freddy," Todd explained.

"Ahh."

They continued shopping, slowly strolling down the aisles, occasionally dumping things in the cart. Pietro kept a total running in his mind, each item deducting from the very small amount of money they had to spend. Pietro pulled a can of green beans off the shelf and was about to add them to their purchases when he paused, glaring at the suddenly offensive item. Todd noticed Pietro's change in expression and looked carefully at his ally.

"You okay?" the Toad asked, taking a step away from the cart. The weirdest things could set the speed-demon off these days.

"DoYouRealizeThatOurEntireLivesCouldBeSummedUpByThisOneCanOfGreenBeans?" Pietro said so quickly, it took Todd a few seconds to sort it out.

"Uhm... what?" Todd asked, confused. "Green beans? We're green beans?"

"No, no, no, no, no. Not the green beans, the CAN, TheCan!" Pietro replied, shaking said can in Todd's face. "LookAtTheCan!"

"Well hold it still!" Todd snapped, snatching it out of Pietro's hand. Todd looked closely at the can of green beans, turning it around in his hand, studying it. Then he looked at his agitated friend. "It's a can of green beans, Pietro," Todd reported. Pietro made a little growling sound and slapped his hand to his forehead, then grabbed the can back.

"It's a can of GENERIC green beans," Pietro told him, speaking slowly and clearly so that he was certain Tolensky would understand. "STORE BRAND," he emphasized. "We can never buy the GOOD green beans - Del Monte, Green Giant - we always buy STORE BRAND!"

Todd scratched his head, feeling even more confused. "They're forty cents cheaper," he returned by way of explanation, pointing to the price labels. "They taste exactly the same. We don't need to buy the more expensive stuff."

"This is like a status symbol, Tolensky," Pietro continued, shoving the can in Todd's face again. "We're not GOOD enough to by non-store brand canned produce! Don't you want to buy non-store brand canned produce for once? Don't you? Don't you?!"

Todd stared at his friend. Then, he slowly reached up his hand and extracted the can from Pietro's grip. "I'm going to put this in the basket now, Pietro," Todd said, keeping his voice even and soft. It was like trying to sooth a savage beast. "Why don't you walk over there and go get some of that soy milk you like while I finish getting the vegetables, okay?" Pietro continued to glare at the can as it began its descent into the basket. The sound of the aluminum hitting the basket sent a cold shiver up his back. Then he blinked.

"Yeah, I'll get the soy milk," Pietro said suddenly, then zipped off. 

Todd let out a huge breath he didn't even realize he was holding. "I've got to talk to Lance about this," he muttered. 

* * * * * *

Fred carefully closed the book before him and let it fall to the bed in his room. The giant adolescent rubbed his tired eyes, sighing deeply. This reading stuff sucked!

There was no denying that Fred was a big and strong guy. It was just something that defined him. He had a feeling he was probably big as a baby, but he never knew his mother so he really couldn't ask. God only knew where his father was. Fred didn't even realize he was a mutant until he was approached by Mystique. He just figured the whole invulnerability stuff was kinda neat and never really gave it much thought.

Then again, he'd never given anything much thought. Being told to crush cars and lift busses didn't take much brainpower. He was big and strong - bigger and stronger than everyone! Why the hell did he need to use his brain? Fred always thought smart people were only smart because they couldn't be strong. When Fred found out he would be enrolled at Bayville High, a little knot of dread had settled in his stomach and wouldn't leave him alone. He had stopped going to school after about fifth grade. How the hell was he going to manage high school?

Luckily, Lance was there to help him.

"You may be big and strong," Fred remembered Lance telling him, "but that won't do much good when you're up against a lot of enemies that are smarter than you. You'd be amazed at how those jerks will come up with ways to out wit you. Believe me, I know."

Fred had to grudgingly admit that Lance was right. Thus began the almost nightly lessons - sitting at the dinning room table with Lance, trying to learn almost five years of lost grades. Fred got his times tables okay and long division really wasn't a problem. They skipped over learning to write in cursive because Fred thought it was kind of girly. Lance tutored him in history and current events, health science, biology, and English (that being verbs, nouns, predicates, subjects, etc). But the reading... Good God, the reading was the worst part.

Fred would stare at the books, looking at the little letters on the page, and his vision would start swimming. He tried to stay focused - really he did - but his mind would wander off. It was just so boring and so damn hard! For Lance, it was almost like some kind of divine mission to teach Fred to read. Lance loved reading. When the brown-haired Earth shaker wasn't working on his powers or swapping bodily fluids with Pietro, nine times out of ten you would find him with a book in his hands. Fred just didn't understand it. And that ticked him off.

The giant was startled out of his thoughts by a knocking on his door. "What?" he snapped, his mind still swirling with aggravation. The door opened and Todd stuck his head in the room.

"Pietro's acting weird so I'm leaving him with Lance. I got some stuff to do. Wanna come along?" he asked.

"Can we smash something? I really need to smash something," Fred told him. Todd shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Cool."

* * * * * *

"So," Lance began easily, putting the diet soda in the pantry, "Todd tells me you think we're green beans."

"Not the green beans, the can," came Pietro's muffled and miserable reply. Lance turned and saw his friend sitting on a stool, his head buried in his arms as he leaned on the kitchen island. Lance let out a small sigh and took the can out of the pantry, setting it in front of the white-haired youth.

"Look at the can again and slowly explain to me what you see," Lance told him. Pietro lifted his head. A cold shiver ran up Lance's spine - he had never seen Pietro's eyes so flat before.

"It's a can of generic green beans," Pietro began, reaching out and lifting the can. "It represents a great deal of who we are. We're store brand shoppers."

"And why does that bother you?" Lance asked, trying hard not to cringe. God, he sounded like the therapist on M.A.S.H.

"It's an inferior product," Pietro explained. "It speaks volumes of where we are, what our lives mean, and how much we can accomplish. We can't even manage to afford a can green beans with a nice label. I bet the X-Geeks get name-brand green beans."

"They probably have fresh ones," Lance said, unable to hold back a smile. Pietro gave him a look. With a chuckle, Lance took the can out of Pietro's hand and set it back on the table. 

"I understand what you're saying Pietro," Lance began after a few moments, his eyes locked onto the can, "but I don't think it's an inferior product. True, the label isn't very attractive, the can's a little dented, and we don't have a quality-freshness seal, but as far as a can of green beans go, this one's doing a good job of it. It's not the best-funded can of green beans on the market, but it fulfills its role, just the same. In a way, I almost think it's a little stronger because of that." There was a brief silence between them. Then, Pietro reached out his hand and clasped Lance's own, intertwining their fingers.

"I don't think we're talking about a can of green beans anymore," Pietro murmured. Lance moved behind him and wrapped his arms around his chest.

"I'm not sure we ever were," he said, his voice breathy. Pietro tore his gaze away from the can and tilted his head back to look at Lance, then nuzzled his face in his friend's broad chest, breathing in his scent, listening to his heartbeat.

"I think I like you dented," Pietro said simply, breaking the silence.

Lance laughed.

* * * * * *

"Why do you need six cans of paint?" Fred asked Todd as they walked out of the home improvement store, all said six cans being carried by Fred.

"Because I want to tile the bathroom," Todd answered, rolling his eyes.

"Oh," Fred replied. Then his brows furrowed in confusion. "Shouldn't you have gotten tiles then?" Todd sighed and began to massage his temples.

"I was being sarcastic, Freddy," Todd said evenly.

"Oh."

They walked in silence a bit more.

"Why do you need paint?"

Todd fought the urge to scream. "Because I want to paint somethin,' alright?" he snapped.

"Fine, fine," Fred replied, slightly annoyed. "No need to bite my head off."

Todd sighed again. "I'm sorry," he began. "I'm just worried about Pietro, you know?"

"Yeah," Fred said with a frown, having heard what happened from Todd. "Does he really think we're green beans?"

"I don't know," returned the smaller youth. They fell into silence again.

"What do you want to paint?" Fred asked after a moment. Todd shrugged.

"I don't know."

* * * * * *

When Todd and Freddy finally returned to the house, it was very quiet. There was no sign of Lance or Pietro downstairs. Todd frowned and turned to Fred.

"Go ahead and put the paint down by that wall over there," Todd instructed, pointing to a rather ugly gray wall on the far side of the living room. Fred did as told while Todd went upstairs, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

Skipping over the squeaky step, Todd softly padded down the hallway, stopping in front of the room he knew Lance and Pietro shared. He put his ear to the door and listened. The sounds of moans and the creaking of bedsprings was absent for a change, but Todd wasn't sure if that was a good sign. He'd sort of been hoping Lance would be able to set Pietro straight - well, as straight as either of them could really get. Lance had this quality about him of being able to help them sort out their problems without making them feel ridiculous, which Todd, having had his fair share of therapy, knew was a rare gift indeed. Without bothering to knock, Todd slowly turned the handle and opened the door, still trying to stay as quiet as possible.

The bed was rumpled but nobody was in it. Todd moved into the room and heard the sounds of the shower coming from the master bathroom, as well as two distinct male voices. Not wanting to hear anymore than that, Todd hopped out of the room and closed the door, giving a small sigh of relief.

So long as Lance and Pietro were getting it on, all was good in the house of the Brotherhood of Mutants. Todd quickly hopped downstairs.

Fred was sitting on the couch, eating some cold pizza that had been left over in the fridge while he flipped television stations. They couldn't afford cable, so there were really only six stations to flip. It was kind of disappointing, really. He looked up as Todd returned to the living room.

"They okay up there?" Fred asked. Todd nodded.

"They're in the shower." The Toad smiled as he saw an involuntary shudder run through Fred's body.

"That's too weird."

"We are weird, Fred," Todd replied, moving to his paints. Fred eye's widened in surprise as he sat up to look at him.

"You're gay, too?" Fred asked incredulously. "What, is it catching?" A slight panic filled his eyes and Todd knew that Fred was suddenly worried about getting gay on him.

"No, I'm not gay Fred," Todd reassured him. "But you have to admit, we are weird." Fred visibly relaxed.

"Yeah, I guess we are."

Todd shook his head and turned back to the wall before him, a little smile on his face. He backed up and maneuvered himself into the crouching position he found most comfortable and just stared at the wall.

After all, this was no ordinary wall.

* * * * * *

Pietro sighed, closed his eyes, and shook his head at sub-sonic speed, letting the water fly out of his hair. Lance gave a little yelp. Pietro opened his eyes and saw his lover, dripping a little more than he should have been, considering he had just dried himself off.

"Oops," Pietro said simply.

"You know," Lance said, grumbling slightly, "I already took my shower. It probably isn't good for your brain for you to be tossing your head around like that." Pietro shrugged.

"Sorry," he said with a sheepish look. "It's just instinct. Ever since my mutant powers emerged, I've always been drying off like that."

"Why don't you let me show you another way," Lance said with a dark grin, grabbing a clean towel of the rack next to the shower. He held out his hand and helped Pietro step out of the tub and onto the bathroom floor. "Close your eyes," Lance told him. Pietro complied.

Standing there with your eyes closed waiting for something you know is going to feel good to happen is a hard enough wait for anyone, but for someone who's mind moved about five times faster than anyone else's, it was pure torture. "Lance..." Pietro pleaded after less than a minute.

"My, we are so impatient," Lance said with a chuckle. It was then Pietro began to feel the soft towel moving across his back, Lance sort of massaging the soft terry cloth into his skin. Pietro moaned, pressing back against Lance's hand, feeling his skin flush. This was all just so kinky!

The towel moved to his chest, up and around his neck, and Pietro could feel Lance's radiating heat behind him. Predictably, the towel dipped down around his thighs, past his knees, around his calves, even across the tops of his feet before it slid back up his body. The towel was then brushed across his face, removing any stray droplets from his head-shaking maneuver. There were a few seconds pause after that, followed by the sound of the towel hitting the ground.

"Missed a spot," Pietro said through clenched teeth.

"I know," he heard Lance whisper in his ear. Pietro suddenly felt himself lifted off the ground by Lance's strong arms, carried the five feet to the bed, and unceremoniously dropped on to it. Pietro opened his eyes at this point as Lance covered his body with his own, slowly running a line of fierce kisses down his throat. Pietro tilted his head back and sighed.

"You know, we just got cleaned up..." Pietro said, his voice catching a little as Lance's hand brushed over his navel and started it's descent south.

"I'm not opposed to multiple showers in one day," Lance said quickly, moving up so that he was nose to nose with Pietro again. Lance kissed him deeply, causing nearly every coherent thought Pietro had to swiftly flee from his mind. Soon, Lance began to make his way down Pietro's body again and the white-haired mutant closed his eyes tightly, feeling slightly enraptured.

And Pietro knew at that moment he would take an ugly labeled, slightly dented, low cost can of store-bought common green beans over any snotty, name-brand item in the world.

And that was okay.

Copyright S. Califf, April, 2001 


	3. Chapter Three

flipside3

**Deeeeeeep thouououghts:**  
Hello again! I though I'd do my opening notes a little differently this time. Okay... here goes:  
Once upon a time, there was a young woman sitting in front of her television set. Now this was no ordinary television set.... wait, no it was an ordinary television set. Very ordinary in fact - back, small, sitting on a delapidated bookcase... but I digress. At any rate, this young woman was sitting in front of her ordinary television set on an ordinary Saturday Morning, getting her ordinary fix of Saturday Morning cartoons while her ordinary boyfriend made breakfast. Suddenly, something out of the ordinary happened. X-Men:Evolution came on. Now, that, in itself wasn't really out of the ordinary. After all, it came on every Saturday at the same time. No, what was out of the ordinary was the episode.  
It was called "Speed and Spyke."  
*dramatic pause*  
As the episode continued progressing through the half-hour it was on, this young woman started to get a strange grin on her face. It was a scary, deranged kind of grin. A frightening grin. Her boyfriend looked at her and started to back away, getting nervous. Then she started to laugh and the boyfriend was officially scared. A lot.  
"Honey...?" he asked, backing away from her on the futon. The young woman turned to him, the deranged smile suddenly replaced with a very sweet one that was somehow more sinister.  
"I got it," was all she said.  
And thus... the story was born. 

"Flip Side"

Chapter Three

By: The Great Immortal, DangerMouse

Lance shifted in bed and reached out his arm to touch the still-warm, but empty spot next to him. The brown-haired youth sat up on his elbows, blinking stupidly at Pietro's vacant place. With a sigh, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and slid out of bed.

It always took Lance about five minutes to register the world in the morning. He squinted at the blurry clock, the bright green LCD numbers seeming to run together. Finally, he managed to make out the time - 7:36. Lance groaned. They had 7:36 in the morning now? Before he moved in with the Brotherhood, Lance would happily snooze away his weekend mornings - Hell, he would usually sleep through his week_day_ mornings as well, school being decidedly non-stimulating and tedious. However, since he moved in to the old Victorian house in the rundown area of Bayville, Lance had found himself getting up earlier and earlier. He couldn't quite figure out why.

Maybe it was because he had a reason to get up.

Stumbling into the bathroom adjoining his bedroom, Lance flipped on the light and leaned heavily on the sink, gazing at his reflection. He couldn't help but notice the ridiculous grin on his face. _Stop that,_ he admonished himself. He was supposed to be the tough guy, not the happy-go-lucky grinning idiot of the group. But Lance couldn't help it. He found himself smiling so much more these days. Who wouldn't be smiling? He had real friends for a change; he could use his powers without worrying about what the others thought, he was in a meaningful relationship with a wonderful individual, he lived in a nice house, had plenty to eat, and a chance to start over. He could live his life without the stigma of the bad reputation he had at his old school. Most importantly, he had something that had previously been lacking in his life.

Family.

As weird, odd-looking, and strange as it was, it was a family. And it was his.

Lance gave up trying to fight his grin.

* * * * * *

After finally managing to finish his shower and get dressed, Lance made his way downstairs, the smell of breakfast assaulting his senses as he approached the living room. He could hear Pietro humming to himself as he moved around in the kitchen. Lance started to make a beeline for the breakfast table, but paused halfway through the living room, turning to stare at what had once been a plain gray wall.

"Um, Pietro," Lance began after a few shocked moments, "do you know what happened to the wall?" Before Lance could blink, Pietro appeared by his side, following his stare.

"I believe Todd happened to the wall," the speed-demon said simply. Lance said nothing, only nodding briefly.

The wall had been transformed.

What had once been a plain, dingy slat of slightly cracked drywall, was now a masterpiece in the making. The beginnings of a fabulous landscape was just starting to emerge, a meadow surrounded ancient trees, the whole scene glowing with a mythical quality. Other figures were developing - animals, magical creatures, or people - it was impossible to tell at this point. The more Lance stared at the wall, the more it seemed to draw him into it.

"I swear," Lance whispered, not taking his eyes off the painting, "I think I can almost smell the leaves of the trees."

"I know," Pietro replied in kind. "It's hard to believe he got all this done in one night." After a few more moments, the two friends exchanged a look, abruptly taking their eyes off the artwork. "Hungry?" Pietro asked with a smile. "I cooked breakfast." Before Lance could reply, Pietro was gone in a blur of movement.

"Yeah," Lance said, moving towards the kitchen, giving the painting one more glance over his shoulder.

* * * * * *

Todd had already been up for three hours when his mother called to him from her bedroom. Todd sighed and dropped the sponge he had been using to wash the dishes into the sink and untied his apron, draping it over a chair. He walked through the semi-clean, very small, two-bedroom home and into his mother's room.

She was sitting on the floor with, as usual, a bottle of hard liquor in her hand. She looked blearily up at Todd through yellow-tinged, red-rimmed eyes. Her straight, brown hair was in complete disarray. Todd fought back another sigh.

"What is it, Mom?" Todd asked her. He walked into the room and over to the dresser next to his mother's bed. Opening the top drawer, he pulled out a hairbrush.

"T-Toddy, what are you d-doing here?" she asked him, rolling her head back to look in his direction. Her speech was slurred and she stuttered. Todd reached down and helped her back on the bed. Sitting behind her, he began to work the brush through her hair.

"I live here, Mom," Todd said evenly.

"No, no, no, no Toddy," she replied with a shake of her head, causing the brush to tangle. "W-Why aren't you in Temple?" Todd paused in his efforts to untangle the brush.

"It's Sunday," he explained after a minute. "Yesterday was the Sabbath."

"Yesh..Yeshterday?"

"Yes, Mother." Todd's mother sat quietly for a moment, as if trying to contemplate what Todd had said.

"So, did you go yeshterday?" she finally asked. Todd put down the brush and pulled his mother's now untangled hair into a lose ponytail, fastening it with a ribbon that was on the end table near the bed.

"No, Mother, I didn't," Todd said. His mother's eyes narrowed.

"You go to Temple, Toddy. You always go to Temple," she told him firmly, her words actually seeming clear. "Why did you miss?"

"I was helping a friend of mine buy some groceries," Todd explained. He stood up and walked around his mother so he could sit facing her on the bed.

"Oh. That's sh'okay," she said with a drunken sort of smile. She leaned forward and cupped her hands around Todd's face, forcing him to look directly in her eyes. "You're a good boy, Toddy," she informed him. Todd said nothing for a few moments.

"Are you hungry?" he asked finally. His mother let go of his face and leaned back on the bed.

"No, not hungry," she said with a weak shake of her head. She lifted the bottle she was holding out so Todd could see. "I could do with a r-refill, though. Jus' somethin' to take the edge off." Todd shook his head.

"No."

His mother looked at him in disbelief. "No?" she repeated her voice beginning to raise to screaming level. Todd fought the urge to cringe - his mother's yelling was horribly screechy and loud.

"No," Todd repeated, failing to keep his voice quiet and in control. "Every day, I brush your hair, get you in clean clothes, cook all the meals, clean the house, and do the yard work, not to mention going to school and doing my homework. I'm tired of all of this and I'm not going to help you destroy yourself any more!"

"How _dare_ you!" his mother yelled. Todd got up off the bed. The floodgates were opening for him and he couldn't hold it back any more.

"How dare _me_? How dare _you_!" he yelled back. "Ever since I can remember, you've been like this! Was having me such a terrible thing that you have to remain in a state of constant drunkenness to escape it all?"

His mother glared at him, an eerie silence falling between them. "Get. Out," she told him, enunciating each word. Todd didn't need to hear any more. He turned on his heal and ran out of the room, then out of the house, slamming the front door behind him.

* * * * * *

Lance was just refilling his coffee when Fred came into the kitchen. The large youth was already dressed and immediately sat down at the breakfast table, filling up a plate that had been set out for him. Taking a large stack of pancakes onto his plate, Freddy grinned at Lance and Pietro.

"Mornin'," he said between mouthfuls.

"Good morning," Pietro replied. Lance simply lifted his mug in a welcoming gesture.

"Did you guys see what Todd painted last night?" Fred asked, swallowing.

"Kinda hard to miss," Lance said, sitting down across from Pietro.

"Yeah, it's really cool," Fred said, taking another bite. "I watched him paint it. Did you know he don't use brushes?"

Lance tilted his head to the side, looking slightly perplexed. "How'd he do it, then?" 

Fred took a large swig of orange juice before answering. "Well, he uses his hands a lot. He would also use his shirt - dab it in the paint and use that. He even put some paint in his hair." Fred paused in his breakfast, concentrating for a moment. "Maybe that is a little like a brush." Fred shook his head to clear it. "Anyway, it was weird, watching him paint it. At first, it was just this big mess, but after about an hour or so, it really started to look like somethin'. Pretty neat."

Pietro nodded his head in approval. "Todd is very talented."

"Yeah. So what're you guys doin' today?" Freddy asked them, grabbing more food off the table. Lance shrugged.

"I was thinking about doing my laundry and studying my SAT vocabulary word trees," he said. Fred rolled his eyes.

"Well, that's exciting. How 'bout you, Pietro?"

"Homework," said the white-haired youth with a yawn. "I've got some trigonometry."

"You could do that in like five seconds," Fred said, pointing his fork in Pietro's face.

"One assignment, maybe," he replied with a smirk. "I was actually planning on finishing my homework for the whole semester today. That way I won't have to worry about it anymore. Why? What do you want to do?

"I don't know," Freddy said, pushing his now empty plate away from him. "I was thinkin' I might go to down to the junkyard and bench press some cars."

"Sounds like a plan," said Lance, standing up and stretching.

"Yep," replied Fred, also standing. "But first I think I'll stop at the Burger Barn." Freddy reached down and patted his stomach. "That was a great appetizer, Pietro, but I'm still starving! See you guys later!" Fred turned and left out the back door, dumping his plates in the sink as he went. Pietro and Lance exchanged a look.

"And I thought I had the worst metabolism of the group," Pietro remarked. Lance mearly shrugged.

* * * * * *

Three hours later, standing outside of a significantly more wealthy Burger Barn, Fred J. Dukes let out a satisfied belch. Finally he was full. With a smile on his face, he started on his way to the junkyard. All that eating made him want to exercise.

"First I'm going to lift a Japanese car, since those are smaller," he said out loud to himself. Fred liked talking to himself. He found that it helped organized his thoughts. "Then, a sports car, then a full-size two door, then a full-size four door, then an SUV, then a---"

"Meow..."

Fred stopped in mid-thought, nearly jumping out of his skin.

"Who said that?" he asked loudly, looking around. He hadn't really been paying attention to where he was going. The junkyard wasn't in the best part of town and these streets in particular were littered with garbage.

"Meow..."

Hearing the sound again, Fred discovered it was coming from a nearby ally. In fact, it was coming from a dumpster. Half expecting to find that a cat had somehow gotten itself caught in there, Fred lifted the lid and saw...

"Nothin'..." Fred said out loud with a frown. "Just a bunch of trash." Fred was just about to drop the lid when he heard the sound again. Fred's frown deepened as he began to dig through the garbage. It sounded like a cat, but he just didn't see a cat.

Suddenly, something moved. Fred let out a little yelp and jumped back. Stepping closer, he looked in the dumpster again. No cat in sight, but was that burlap sack moving? Fred lifted the sack out of the dumpster and it meowed at him.

"Huh," Fred said evenly. He sat down on the ground and set the sack in front of him. It wasn't easy with his thick fingers, but he finally managed to undo the knot keeping the bag closed. Fred carefully reached inside the now opened sack and felt something warm and fuzzy. Gently he lifted the animal out.

It was just a kitten, the oddest color of gray Fred had ever seen. It had short hair and big green eyes, and Fred knew it was far too thin. It meowed at him plaintively swiping its little claws at his hands. Fred held the kitten close to his body and it curled up in his arms and went to sleep. Fred tried to scowl at it, but he couldn't.

"Great," he muttered. "Just what I needed."

* * * * * *

Pietro grunted in pain. "That hurts, Lance," he said between clenched teeth.

"Just relax," replied the brown-haired youth, "It'll be over in a minute."

"Easy for you to say," Pietro snapped. "Now what am I feeling for, exactly?"

"It'll be rounded and slightly warm, " Lance explained.

"Rounded and... ow!" Pietro gasped. "There's something sharp in there!"

"Sharp? There shouldn't be anything sharp. Here, let me help you," Lance said, taking a step forward.

"Ow! No, stay put! I think my hand is stuck!"

"Well, that's just..."

"Wait, wait, wait... I think I feel it!" interrupted Pietro. He looked over his shoulder and shot a glare at Lance. "This was your idea. Why aren't you doing this?"

"My hands are too big," Lance said with a shrug. "Yours are more... delicate."

"Great, delicate hands," the white-haired youth said with a roll of his eyes. "Now that I've got this thing, what do I do with it?"

"You don't know?" Lance asked in disbelief. "Geez, you are innocent."

"You know this isn't my specialty," Pietro replied defensively. "Usually I just hire somebody to take care of these things."

"Yeah, well we can't afford somebody this time. The costs for this kind of labor have just skyrocketed."

"Whatever. Just tell me what to do next."

"Well, you just grasp that rounded thing kinda tightly, twist it a little to the left, then tug on it."

"Grab, twist, tug," Pietro repeated, maneuvering his hands to get a better grip. "Grab, twist... Hey, it came loose! Was it supposed to come loose?"

"That's the whole idea," Lance replied with a grin. "Now hand it to me."

Pietro pulled his arm out of the washing machine and handed the part to Lance. He rolled his shoulder a few times, groaning slightly. "I didn't like doing that," he told Lance.

"Well, it was cheaper than hiring a repair person," Lance said, dropping the broken part on the kitchen table behind him. He leaned over it, studying it.

"Can you fix it?" Pietro asked him, going to stand next to his friend. 

"Probably."

"Great. Well, I think I'll... hmmm." Pietro closed his eyes and put a hand to his temple. Lance immediately looked up in concern.

"Your head still hurting?" he asked him, resting a hand on his forehead.

Pietro nodded. "A little. But I wasn't using my speed at all."

"You were this morning," Lance reminded him, "when you made breakfast. Also, you used it a little last night when you--"

"Yeah, I know," Pietro said, cutting him off. "But I've never had the headaches when I wasn't using my speed directly." He rubbed his head, sighing slightly. "Maybe I should go talk to Mystique after all."

"That's what I've been telling you," Lance said firmly. "Do you want me to call her now?"

"No," Pietro began, starting to shake his head, but he paused, an expression of pain flashing across his face. "I think I just want to go lie down in the dark for a little while." Lance nodded and wrapped his arm around Pietro's shoulder, helping him get upstairs.

* * * * * *

Since bench-pressing cars seemed out of the picture now that he had a kitten sleeping on his shoulder, Fred decided to cut his loses and head to the park.. It was a very nice day, the sun shining brightly and the temperature just right. There were a lot of people in the park, especially a lot of kids. Fred didn't mind kids - actually, he kinda liked them. They never really laughed at him too much once they got to know him. Not like adults.

A number of people shot him odd glances and he walked through the playground, but nobody said anything. Fred was scanning around for a bench to rest on when he saw someone he recognized sitting rather despondently on the swings.

"Todd? You okay?" Fred asked, walking over to the hunched figure. Todd looked up at him through his mop of brown hair. He looked back down at his feet and said nothing. "Come on, man, you can tell me," Fred insisted. Finally, Todd looked up, kicking the ground a little in front of him as he did.

"I did something bad today, man," Todd said with a sigh.

"Bad how?"

"I yelled at my mom." Todd got up off the swing and started to walk towards a picnic table at the edge of the playground. Fred followed. They both sat down, and Todd began picking at the wood. "I shouldn't have done it."

"Why'd you yell at her?" Fred prompted.

"I don't know. She just got me mad. I guess it had been building for a long time. Still," Todd said, looking up at Fred and pounding the table, "I shouldn't have done it. She's got a sickness, you know. I know she can't help it. She's addicted."

"Yeah," Fred said with an uncomfortable nod. Fred didn't know what to do. Lance usually handled things like this. Fred wasn't good a being sensitive. Suddenly he got an idea. "Here, you go Todd. Hold this."

Todd looked up just as Fred dropped a kitten into his lap. Todd blinked at the small furry animal, which blinked back and him, then curled up in a ball and started purring. The Toad couldn't help but smile.

"Where on Earth did you get this?" he asked Freddy.

"Found it in a dumpster. Do you believe that?" Fred shook his head angrily. "How could anyone do something like that?"

"People are crazy," Todd said with a frown. He sat there quietly and continued to pet the small ball of fur. Finally, he sighed, handing the animal back to Fred. "Thanks," he said. "That helped a lot. I guess I should go home.."

"Yeah," Fred nodded. He watched as Todd hopped away towards his home, a concerned look on his face.

* * * * * *

Todd stood at the front door to his home, steeling himself to enter. Without any further hesitation, Todd opened the door and went in. He could hear the television blaring in the living room. Todd walked in and turned it off. The house was very quiet.

"Mom?" he called walking through the house. She wasn't in the kitchen or the bathroom. He walked into her bedroom and saw her laying on the bed. "Mom?" he called again, walking towards her.

"Mom, I just want to say I'm sorry," he began softly. "I didn't mean to yell at you. I know you're sick and can't help the things you do. I really want you to get well, though. I think we need to get some help, okay?" He looked up at his mother, whose eyes were closed. She looked so peaceful and still. Too still. Todd suddenly felt his stomach tighten.

"Mom?" he whispered.

Copyright S. Califf, April, 2001 


	4. Chapter Four

flipside4 ****

Mooooore thououououghts...:   
_Last time on "Author Notes" : And thus... story was born_.  
So, the young woman went to her computer and started viciously slashing poor helpless Lance and Pietro. That's all it was going to be. Nothing more, nothing less. And then, Todd entered the scene. Suddenly, the young woman liked Todd as a character. A lot. The story started having to do with him. Then, since we had the other three, it was only sensible that Fred be given a story line as well. And while we were at it, let's see if we could draw in Mystique some, and maybe a little Rogue happening here. Let's see if we could throw in some angst and a terrible, terrible tragedy. Let's put these characters through hell then drag them back out of it.  
All this for a little bit of slash.  
Is nothing simple these days?  
And what's become of the boyfriend?  
Well, he thinks the whole thing is very funny. He thinks it's cool that his girlfriend writes slash about everything - can see slash story lines popping up in every genre that ever existed (with the possible exception of PBS kids shows like "Barney and Friends," and "Arthur").  
*shudders*  
Why does the boyfriend like his girlfriend writing slash? Well that, my friends, is personal. Let's just say everyone is happy all around, okay?  
So, the story grew. And grew, and grew, and grew. And now, it no longer classifies as a story but is fast approaching novel-hood. And the boyfriend still thinks it's funny.   
*sighs* 

"Flip Side"

Chapter Four

By: The Great Immortal, DangerMouse

It was an absolutely beautiful spring day. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky, a light breeze was blowing, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of freshly cut grass and wild flowers. Above him, Lance could hear birds singing in the trees, their gentle melody carrying for miles around. It was the kind of day painters liked to capture on their canvases and poets enjoyed writing about.

Lance thought it was disgustingly inappropriate.

Lance shifted, his rarely worn formal shoes extremely uncomfortable, his dark, long-sleeved outfit too warm for this day. He barely noticed the large group of mourners and was only half listening to the Hebrew being spoken by the Rabbi. Instead, Lance was watching Todd, his friend's expression completely unreadable, his mop of brown hair combed neatly for a change. Todd stood there, completely stoic, not one tear streaming down his face, staring straight ahead at nothing at all. At a nod from the Rabbi, Todd stepped forward. Taking a breath, he began to recite the Kaddish.

__

"Yisgadal v'yiskadash sh'mei rabbaw."

"Amein," Lance head the rest of the gathered mourners reply.

"_B'allmaw dee v'raw chir'usei_  
"_v'yamlich malchusei,b'chayeichon, uv'yomeichon,_  
"_uv'chayei d'chol beis yisroel,_  
"_ba'agawlaw u'vizman kawriv, v'imru: Amein"_

"Amein. Y'hei sh'mei rabbaw m'vawrach l'allam u'l'allmei allmayaw."

__

"Y'hei sh'mei rabbaw m'vawrach l'allam u'l'allmei allmayaw.  
"Yis'bawrach, v'yishtabach, v'yispaw'ar, v'yisromam, v'yis'nasei,  
"v'yis'hadar, v'yis'aleh, v'yis'halawl sh'mei d'kudshaw b'rich hu"

"b'rich hu."

__

"L'aylaw min kol birchawsaw v'shirawsaw,  
"tush'b'chawsaw v'nechemawsaw, da'ami'rawn b'all'maw, v'imru: Amein"

"Amein"

__

"Y'hei shlawmaw rabbaw min sh'mayaw,v'chayim  
"awleinu v'al kol yisroel, v'imru: Amein."

"Amein."

__

"Oseh shawlom bim'ro'mawv, hu ya'aseh shawlom  
"awleinu v'al kol yisroel v'imru: Amein."

"Amein."

That done, the rest of the ceremony was something of a blur for Lance. The Rabbi tore the right side of Todd's shirt and the plain wooden coffin was lowered into the ground. There was no tombstone - Lance had been told that one would not be erected for at least twelve months after this day. Soon, the ceremony completed, everyone began to drift off. Todd, however, did not move. The Rabbi was standing next to him, speaking to him softly. If Todd was hearing a word that was said, it wasn't showing on his face. Lance felt a hand on his arm and he turned. Freddy was standing next to him and gave him a concerned look.

"You should probably take Pietro to the hospital now," Freddy told Lance, nodding over in Pietro's direction. The white-haired youth looked extremely pale. His eyes were closed and he was leaning against a tree for support. Even as far away as he was, Lance could see the jerky motion of Pietro's chest as it rose and fell, his face contorting with agony at every drawn breath. What had started out yesterday as a simple headache while they were fixing the washing machine had been gradually turning into a health condition that Pietro didn't mind admitting he found terrifying. Lance had actually been reaching for the phone to call 911 when they got the call from Todd's Rabbi saying that his mother had passed away. Pietro refused to go to the hospital after that.

Lance nodded at Fred. "Will you take care of Todd?" he asked.

"Sure," Freddy replied. "That rabbit guy--"

"Rabbi," Lance corrected him.

"Whatever. That guy said we needed to go back to Todd's house and cover all the mirrors or something so that Todd could start sitting Shiva. I think I can do that myself."

"Right," Lance returned with a nod. He started to walk towards Pietro, but paused and looked back at Fred. "Don't tell Todd where we're going, okay? He doesn't need to worry about this right now."

"Sure thing," said Fred. Lance quickly made his way over to Pietro.

* * * * * *

Lance hated hospital waiting rooms. 

They were cold and sterile and filled with sick people. The magazines had 'up-to-date' information on the Reagan administration, the newspapers all had holes in them, and the crosswords were finished. The television was tuned to CNN, which meant Lance had seen the same news cast repeat its self almost four times now. That, and he hated waiting.

He was a little pissed off they didn't let him go with Pietro into the examination room. 'Family members only,' they had told him. For God's sake, if he wasn't Pietro's family, he didn't know what was. He started to bounce his leg up and down, completely unaware that the ground started shaking until the person sitting next to him gasped and clutched the armrests of her chair. Lance immediately stopped his nervous movement and turned, smiling wanly at the woman.

"Must have been a truck driving by," he told her, reassuringly. The woman nodded, her eyes wide.

"Mr. Alvers?"

Lance immediately stood up. An African-American woman in a long white coat walked towards him, her face serious. Lance swallowed hard.

"I'm Lance Alvers," he told her, reaching out his hand. She shook it firmly.

"My name is Doctor Jems," she said. "I've been treating Mr. Maximoff. Do you know if he has any family we can contact?"

"I am family," Lance told her, trying to keep the hardness out his voice. She looked at him critically for a moment, then nodded, sudden understanding on her face.

"I see," she replied. She looked down at her chart, an almost imperceptible frown on her face. With a sigh, she looked back at Lance, her expression hardly changing. "I'm not going to lie to you, Mr. Alvers," she began. "Pietro is very, very sick."

"What's up?" he asked her, starting to chew on his lower lip. It was a bad habit of his that Pietro said he found endearing.

"We ran a few standard blood tests and did an MRI," Dr. Jems said, her voice even. "His blood pressure is a little high and he has an extremely rapid heart beat. The MRI showed a gray spot on his brain."

"'Gray spot?'" Lance repeated, feeling very nervous. "A tumor? he asked.

"No," the doctor replied, "not a tumor." Lance started to visibly relax, but she held her hand up. "But it is something that is just as dangerous. Your friend has what we call a sub-dermal hematoma. It's a--"

"A blood-clot," Lance finished for her, his mind running back through a book he had read. The doctor nodded.

"That's correct. It could be caused by a number of things - a genetic pre-disposition not completely out of the question. A blood vessel in Pietro's brain has a weak spot on it that has expanded the artery and is causing some pressure against his brain." The doctor shook her head. "We are actually lucky, in that sense."

"How so?" Lance asked, slightly confused.

"Well," the doctor explained, "if the clot had not been pressing on the brain, Pietro wouldn't have had any symptoms - like the headaches. If this had been the case, we would have had zero warning of his condition and the blood vessel would likely have ruptured. There would have been nothing we could have done at that point."

Lance felt cold. "So, what are our treatment options?" he finally asked, his voice shaking slightly.

"Not many, I'm afraid," she told him. "Given the state of his condition, there is really only one treatment option - direct surgery. We're going to go in and put a metal clip across the neck of the aneurysm, or the place where the blood vessel is weak. We'll repair the damaged vessel and hopefully prevent any bleeding in the future."

Lance nodded, his mind swimming. "When will you do the surgery?"

"We can schedule an operating room for this afternoon," Dr. Jems told him. Her expression grew more serious. "I must tell you of the risks involved with this surgery."

Lance felt his stomach constrict. He didn't like the way she said 'risks.' He merely inclined his head to encourage her to go on, not trusting himself to speak. Dr. Jems took a deep breath.

"This is a brain surgery," she reminded him. "It is a very delicate operation. Now, our surgeons are very skilled and have done this sort of things many times before. Still, the risk of permanent brain damage is there." She paused as Lance absorbed the news. He felt like he was going to throw up.

"But, if there aren't any complications...," he began.

"Then we expect a full recovery," she said with a smile. "There may be some temporary change in mental function - memory loss, reasoning skills, and emotional stability - but Pietro should recover completely. We don't foresee any complications. Now, you didn't put anything on his form about immediate family. Is there any one else we need to call? Who is Pietro's legal guardian?"

"Uhm, Mystique," Lance half murmured, momentarily distracted, feeling a sudden need to pace. Dr. Jems' eyebrows pulled together in mild confusion.

"'Mystique?'" she repeated, not really believing that was a name.

"Yeah, yeah... No," Lance said, snapping back to the conversation at hand. "Uhm.. Principal Darkholme at Bayville High School." He watched as the doctor began to write down the information. "Her number is 555-7671," he recited. The doctor finished writing and snapped the cap back on her pen.

"Okay. I'm going to go give Ms. Darkholme a call so that we can get permission to perform the surgery."

"Can I go see him?" Lance asked, looking in the direction of Pietro's room. The doctor nodded. Lance immediately walked towards his room.

* * * * * *

Mystique was sitting in her living room in the dark, a hand pressed across her eyes. She hated days like this. The funeral had been terrible - nice, but terrible. Of course, she found all funerals awful. Just bury her in the backyard, that's what she wanted. No time to dwell on her passing, no gravestone to mark her place in this world.

Not that anyone would attend her funeral anyway.

She shook her head to banish those thoughts. Now was not the time to focus on her mortality. She stood up and walked to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door and looking inside. What did one bring to someone sitting Shiva? She didn't know the first thing about Jewish mourning practices. Her family had been decidedly non-religious and if they had been anything at all, they would have been some branch of Christianity. Mystique sighed and closed the door, deciding she would call Rabbi Goodman and ask him. She walked over to the phone and was just about to pick up the receiver when it rang. With a sigh, she picked up the handset.

"Hello?"

* * * * * *

Lance walked into Pietro's room and tried not to gasp. His friend was buried under a pile of wires. The heart monitor chirped out a steady beat as an IV dripped something into his veins. He looked so pale and cold, Lance was tempted to reach out and shake him. But he restrained himself and instead, went to sit down in a chair next to him. As he sat down, Pietro's eyes fluttered open and he gave Lance a small smile.

"Hey," he said, his voice horse.

"You look like shit," Lance informed him. Pietro gave a small laugh.

"I got that impression when you walked in with a look of horror on your face." He reached out and took Lance's hand into his own.

"The doctor says you're going to need surgery," Lance said quietly, rubbing Pietro's cold hand, bending and flexing the fingers.

"I know. They told me." Pietro let out a small sigh and smiled almost brightly at Lance. "I'm so relieved."

"'Relieved?'" Lance repeated in shock, nearly jumping out of his chair. Pietro nodded.

"This means it wasn't caused by my mutant powers. It's just a normal human problem. I don't know what I'd do if they told me I couldn't use my powers anymore. They aren't the sort that you can just turn off." He closed his eyes and seemed to sink into his pillow. "I'm so tired, Lance."

"They've got you on some pain medication." Pietro nodded, his breathing slowly becoming more regular and deeper. A nurse came in the room and put her hand on Lance's shoulder, motioning with her head towards the door. Lance nodded, standing up, folding Pietro's hand over his chest. He leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on his forehead. "I love you," he whispered.

Pietro smiled slightly in his sleep. "... love... you," he murmured back. Lance quietly walked out of the room, letting his friend rest before his surgery.

* * * * * *

Fred wasn't sure what to do. He had helped the Rabbi cover all the mirrors and light the candles. Todd was sitting on a low stool on the floor, just staring at the wall. A few mourners Fred didn't recognize were sitting around him saying nothing. Fred had made room in the refrigerator for the food they brought, throwing out the alcohol that was still in there. Now, he was standing just off to the side of the living room, not sure at all what to do with him self.

"Mr. Dukes?" 

Fred nearly jumped when someone quietly said his name. Nobody ever called him 'Mr. Dukes.' It was just creepy. He turned and saw Rabbi Goodman standing behind him.

"Yeah?" he replied, not at all intelligently. The Rabbi nodded his head towards the kitchen and Fred followed him in.

"Are you all right, Mr. Dukes?" the Rabbi asked him. Fred shook his head.

"Just call me Fred, or Freddy, okay? Mr. Dukes is way too formal for me." The Rabbi nodded. Fred took a deep breath. "What do I do now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what do I do now?" Fred repeated, feeling a little upset. "Todd's completely out of it. I don't have anything ta' say to him or anything I can do for him ta' make him feel better. He's real upset."

"I know," the Rabbi said sadly. "There really is nothing we can do to help Todd through this grief other than being here and being supportive for him when he does want to talk. Weren't there two other friends of his at the funeral?"

"Yeah," Fred replied, shaking his head again. "But one of 'em, Pietro, was real sick. He has been for a few days. Lance took 'im to the hospital."

"Oh dear," the Rabbi said, looking worried. "I hope he's alright."

"Me, too." Suddenly, the phone rang, startling them both. Rabbi Goodman went and picked up the phone before it could ring again.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver. He listened for a few seconds, then handed the phone to Fred. "It's for you," he said simply. "It's your friend Lance." Fred swallowed hard and took the handset from the Rabbi.

"Fred, here."

* * * * * *

Rogue sat on her bed, her hands folded behind her head as she stared at the ceiling. After getting the call from Lance last night telling her about Todd's mother's death, she had retreated to her bedroom and not left since. She rolled over on her side, wrapping the pillow around her head, trying not to cry.

She and Todd had bonded a bit when she was living with the Brotherhood. They weren't the best of friends, but he always listened to her when she complained and vice versa. Todd told her about his mother, how sick she was, how worried he was about her. She knew Todd didn't really want to be in the Brotherhood, but Mystique was giving him a small allowance for doing it, not to mention practically having forced him to help her the first time. Before the Brotherhood, Todd pretty much relied on stealing to cover costs such as the mortgage payments on his mother's house, booze, food, clothing, and whatever else his small family needed.

Todd was one of the reasons she had been so hesitant to join the X-Men. They had attacked him for real. Todd told her when he first approached Scott Summers about his mutant powers, he had been invited to Xavier's Mansion. Before he took two steps on the grounds, he was assaulted by Storm, who claimed she was 'testing' him to see if he had any mutant powers. Well, duh, he had mutant powers! There were other ways to test for the X gene - a blood test, or a mouth swab, or something. It's not like the Professor sicked Wolverine on Kitty or Cyclops on Spyke to test them.

No wonder Todd had run. In his situation, she would have done the same thing. Come to think of it, she had. The Professor never wanted Todd to be part of the Team for one reason or the other. That callousness on his part frightened her a little.

Still, she felt a little safer here then with the Brotherhood, if only because she feared the X-Men more.

She had debated going to the funeral and finally decided against it. She wasn't a member of the Brotherhood any more and wasn't sure if she would be really welcome. Still, it had been a long, sleepless night, not to mention a difficult morning. Her stomach growled at her angrily. As much as she wanted to continue lying here, it was almost lunchtime and she hadn't eaten in almost an entire day, having missed dinner last night and breakfast this morning. With a sigh that seemed to come from her toes, she threw off the pillow and slid out of bed. Patting her hair down flat and changing into a clean set of clothes, she made her way downstairs.

Everyone was already sitting at the table, eating lunch. No one else knew what was bothering her, but she assumed the Professor had told them all to leave her be. Sometimes, knowing a psychic wasn't so bad.

"Auch, look who finally decided to join us," Kurt said with a grin, his accent thick. Rogue took a seat next to him, shooting him a glare.

"Stuff it, blue boy. I ain't in the mood," she told him sharply.

"Oo, touchy, touchy," he replied, making little warding motions with his hands, still grinning. Rogue bit back another sigh. Instead she reached across the table and snatched a sandwich off the large pile. She chewed it slowly, not really hungry. For some reason, it tasted like sand in her mouth.

Scott was about to say something to her when the phone hanging on the wall let out a shrill ring. Jean levitated it off the hook and into her hand.

"Xavier residence," she said cheerfully. She paused for a minute, listening to whoever was on the other line. "Uh, huh," she finally said, "and may I ask who's calling?" Her expression turned to one of irritation. Rogue watched this and before Jean could say any more, she reached over and snatched the phone out of her hand.

"Hello?" Rogue said, ignoring Jean's indignant 'Hey!' at her actions.

//Hey, Rogue.// Lance's voice came clearly over the line.

"Hey, Lance, what's up?" she asked him, not leaving the kitchen. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some of the members of her team exchange concerned looks. She ignored them. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it this morning. I just didn't think it would be a good idea..."

//Hey, hey, that's alright. Todd was so out of it, I don't think he noticed that anybody was there. That really isn't the reason I called anyway.// There was a short pause over the line that made Rogue suddenly feel very nervous.

"Lance, what's wrong?" she asked him, her voice filling with panic. This was only the second time Lance had called her since she joined the X-Men. The first time was, of course, last night, when he informed her of Todd's mother's death.

//I'm at the Bayville Memorial Hospital. Pietro.... Pietro's sick.//

"Sick? Sick how?"

//He has an aneurysm in his brain.// Lance started talking very quickly. Rogue could almost hear him breaking down piece by piece. The worry in his voice was extremely evident. //It didn't bleed, but it's causing him some real problems. He's going into surgery in about a half an hour. They called Mystique and she's on her way. I called Freddy and he's gonna stay with Todd. We didn't tell Todd anything. We didn't think that he should have to worry about this now. I know you're not with us anymore and you didn't get to know Pietro very well, but I thought you should know anyway, since we were kinda friends, and I could really use a friend because I don't have anyone to talk to. I thought I could handle all of this myself, but he looks so pale and weak, and he's in so much pain... Oh, God, Rogue, what am I gonna do? I don't know what to do anymore!//

"Breathe Lance, breathe!" she said, trying to keep her own frantic worry out of her voice. She obviously wasn't very successful because Kitty and a few of the others were now standing up and moving towards her. "I'm gonna come down there. Don't leave the hospital, okay?"

//Yeah, I'm not going anywhere. I have to stay with him, Rogue, I have to. What if something goes wrong? What am I going to do if something goes wrong?!//

"Everything's gonna be fine, you hear me?" she said, trying to reassure him. "I'm leavin' the house right now, got it? Don't leave, don't try to go anywhere, don't try to -drive- anywhere, okay?"

//Right. Okay. I'll see you soon, then. Bye.// His voice was strangely small.

"Bye," Rogue replied and waited until she heard him hang up before she did the same. She dropped the phone on the table and started to make a beeline for her bedroom, ignoring all the questions thrown at her by the other X-Men. Kitty ran after her and got to the room just in time to see Rogue throwing on a different pair of shoes.

"Hey, Rogue, like, what's going on?" she asked slightly out of breath. Rogue could move fast when she had to.

"Nothin' you need to worry about, Valley Girl," Rogue snapped, reaching under her bed and pulling out her helmet. She hoped Jean wouldn't mind if she took her mo-ped. She started to charge out of the bedroom but Kitty grabbed her arm. "Let. Go. Of. Me," she told her, her eye's narrowing.

"Hey, I know you're all like, lone wolf, and stuff, but we are, like, a team now, right?" Kitty said, not backing down in the least. "You can't, like, go running off at the drop of a hat, especially if -those- guys are involved, you know?" The rest of the X-Men were gathering outside their door, looking on, varying degrees of worry and interest on their faces.

"What I know is that you better remove that hand of yours before you lose it," she said through clenched teeth. Kitty did not let go.

"Not until you tell us what is, like, going on."

"Yeah, Rogue, we're a family," Spyke said, taking a step forward. Rogue wrenched her arm out of Kitty's grip.

"Family? she asked incredulously. "Family we may be, but this ain't about this family! This is about my other one and it don't involve none of you!" She angrily pushed her way through the group. Scott made a move to catch her arm and hold her back, but Professor Xavier's voice in his head stilled him.

~No, Scott. Let her go.~

~But Professor--, ~ Scott protested, watching her take off down the stairs.

~She has to make her own choices, Scott. We all have to trust that her judgment is sound enough to handle these types of things on her own.~ He rolled forward his chair just as the sound of the front door slamming reached their ears.

"Trust," Xavier continued, out loud, "is what this group is built on."

"I hope you're right, Professor," Scott said, not really convinced or consoled. "I hope you're right."

Copyright S. Califf, May, 2001 


	5. Chapter Five

flipside5 ****

Author Notes Strike Back: (in which we answer the question on everyone's lips...)  
_WHAT HAPPENED TO THE AUTHOR??  
_Once upon a time there was a slash writer who's pen name was DangerMouse. She liked writing slash, particualry Lance/Pietro slash, because nobody else seemed to be doing it. Besides, they were cute characters (and even cuter together) and this Author has a villian fetish as well, but that is another story entirely. Well, everything was going well for this Author - people really seemed to like her stories (which surprised her) and wrote lots and lots of nice reviews (which surprised her boyfriend even more). Everything was coming up daisies, as far as this fanfiction was concerned, but then, the unthinkable happened.  
DangerMouse's muse ran away.  
Oh, it was a terrible situtaion, to be sure. The skies rained, the walls bled, the dog got fleas, and the car stopped working. Every now and then, DangerMouse would spot her muse, skipping around in other fandoms, like Harry Potter or Quantum Leap or Angel, but try as she might, the Author couldn't seem to drag her back where she belonged. Something had to be done.  
To make a long story short ("TOO LATE") DangerMouse set a series of dasterdly traps in order to catch her muse. And well, obviously, one of them worked. So here, for your reading pleasure, is....

****

"Flip Side"

~Chapter FIVE~

By: The Great Immortal, DangerMouse

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Pietro was starting to get very aggravated. 

He had awoken to feel himself lying on a cold, hard surface that wasn't at all comfortable, his eyes shut and not responding. In the distance, he could hear something that sounded like moving water, such as a fish tank filter or one of those fountains they sell in department stores. Wiggling his fingers and toes experimentally, he took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling cool air filter pleasantly into his lungs. After finally convincing his body that, yes, he did want to open his heavy, heavy eyelids thank you very much, he was quite disappointed and silently cursed himself for the wasted effort. 

The room was featureless.

Everything was black. There were no walls, no floors, no ceiling, nor any ornamentation of any kind. Not even a fish tank. The surface he was lying on wasn't really a surface at all - it was more like he was floating, but without all the fun of being weightless.

After pushing himself up to a standing position, he'd turned once in a circle, looking around, squinting in the blackness, trying to see anything. He'd taken a few steps forward, but stopped, slightly disturbed. For some reason he'd been expecting an echo, but his footsteps remained stubbornly silent. And so, Pietro was standing very still, waiting patiently for something to happen.

No one has ever described Pietro Maximoff as patient.

"Well, as far as Near Death Experiences go, this one sucks!" he called out to no one in particular. "Where's my damn tunnel of light?"

"Well, obviously, you're not near death," quipped a high-pitched voice behind him. Pietro spun around and felt his jaw go slack in shock.

Sitting calmly on a wooden bar stool (which definitely had not been there a few seconds ago) was quite possibly the strangest thing he had ever seen. She was maybe seven inches tall, with light-blue skin and long green hair. She sported a simple, off-white halter-top dress that fell about her ankles, which were crossed as she bounced her legs up and down. Her large eyes were a strange, pupil-less ice blue, giving him what could only be described as an impassive stare. In her hand she held a small 7-11 slurpy cup, her small mouth chewing incessantly on the red straw sticking out of the top.

"What the hell are you?" Pietro finally managed to ask after a beat.

"Your sub-conscious, obviously," she said, rolling her eyes. "What else would I be?" Pietro looked at her again, slightly confused.

"Why is my sub-conscious female?" he asked leaning in to get a closer look. She raised an eyebrow, giving him a little smirk.

"Why do you think, bottom-boy?" she said with a lewd sort of glance. "Nice shirt, by the way."

Pietro looked down at himself and was surprised to discover he was wearing his favorite purple shirt. "I happen to like this shirt," he said defensively, glaring at the girl. "And what do you mean, 'bottom-boy?'"

"Puh-lease," she said, rolling her eyes again. "I'm your sub-conscious. I know more about you than you do."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Well, no one ever said you were the smartest of the bunch," the girl replied with a shrug.

Pietro stared at her for a minute. "You're not very nice," he told her finally. "Why is my sub-conscious insulting me?" 

"Maybe," she said, giving him a sort of weak, cynical smile, "you have low self-esteem."

Pietro blinked.

* * * * * *

Rogue felt the cool air of an overpowered air conditioner blow across her face as the electric doors to the hospital slid open with a 'swish.' She shivered, suddenly wishing she had brought a sweater. She couldn't help but wonder why hospitals were always kept so cold - it certainly wasn't comfortable to the patients and she couldn't imagine the doctors really liking it that much. She looked around the cold, sterile waiting area and grimaced. She really hated hospitals. With a resigned sigh, she walked up to the reception desk and waited patiently for the male orderly to notice her. After about five minutes of watching him type at the computer and busy himself shuffling papers, she cleared her throat.

"Yes?" he asked, not even looking up. "Are you injured?"

"Um, no," she told him, raising an eyebrow. "Ah'm lookin' for someone. Ah don't know where ta' go."

"Name?"

Rogue blinked. "Rogue... Xavier," she supplied unsteadily, not really interested in giving her own last name. At this, the orderly looked up at her and, taking in her gothic appearance, raised an eyebrow in return.

"Are you on drugs?" he asked her carefully. Rogue blinked at him again in shock. Once that was out of her system, however, she narrowed her eyes.

"No, Ah am not on DRUGS," she said loudly, very affronted. "Ah am LOOKIN' for a FRIEND of MINE." She spoke slowly and clearly, emphasizing every few words for the orderly's benefit.

"I meant what's the name of your friend, _darlin_'," he drawled, sarcastically mimicking her southern accent.

"Pietro Maximoff," she growled out, giving the orderly a look that could melt glass. She really, _really_ hated hospitals. The orderly poked around at his computer for a minute more then nodded, more to himself than anyone else.

"Yeah," he said, looking up at her. "He's in surgery. But you can wait down the hall." At this he stood up and pointed down a corridor. "I think that's where some other folks are waiting. Think you can find it your self, hon?"

"Ah'll manage," she told him sharply, then spun on her heel and walked quickly in the direction he pointed. "Jerk," she muttered under her breath. Before turning the corner that would lead her to the waiting area, she found her steps faltering. Taking a deep breath to steady her self, she swallowed audibly and walked into the room.

Lance was sitting in what looked like an uncomfortable chair, chin in hand, looking solemnly out the window. Mystique, in her Principal Darkholme persona, was sitting across the room, flipping furiously through a magazine, not really reading it. There were other families in the room as well, most sitting quietly and looking worried or sad, some talking softly in small groups. A small television was mounted in the upper right-hand corner of the room, silently depcting a CNN newscast, the subtitles rolling across the screen. Overhead, the blue florescent lights buzzed, giving everyone in the room a deathly pallor. Rogue felt her stomach flip - this was the worst room she'd been in yet.

She met Mystique's eyes as she walked across the room, giving her an unreadable look before focusing back to her magazine, turning the pages so hard, Rogue suspected they might rip. She forced herself to push her cold anger towards the metamorphosing mutant down and out of the way. Now was not the time to dwell on petty rivalries and old grudges. Instead, Rogue continued her progress through the room, finally taking a seat in a vacant chair next to Lance. She watched the earth-shaker in silence, deciding he needed to make the first move. She didn't want to interrupt his thoughts.

After a few moments, Lance turned to Rogue, giving her a small smile.

"Glad you came, beautiful," he told her softly, his eyes somewhat duller than usual.

"Ah told you not ta' call me that," she chided gently, not really upset. He'd started calling her that when she joined The Brotherhood, mostly because it annoyed her. He probably still did it for the same reason. This time, however, it didn't seem like a jibe - instead, it felt reassuring. Normally, Rogue would not know this sullen youth to be the fierce-spirited angry mutant she'd hung out with during her brief stint in Mystique's service. Hearing him call her by that annoying nickname seemed to relieve some of the tension she'd been feeling about this meeting.

"I wasn't sure you were going to come," Lance said, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Of course I came," she replied with a little more force than she intended. "Why wouldn't I?" Lance shrugged.

"I figured the other X-Geeks wouldn't want you to leave," he explained.

"Well, they didn't," Rogue said. "But I'm here anyway."

"Maybe there's hope for you yet," Lance told her, grinning a little. Rogue smiled back briefly before becoming more serious.

"So, what's tha' verdict," she asked him, nodding her head in the direction of the operating room. Lance gave a deep sigh, following her gaze, his expression dropping a little.

"I don't really know," he said quietly, frowning. "They wheeled him in about forty-five minutes ago. The doctor said the operation would take about two hours, barring any complications. It's supposed to be pretty routine and they said he has a good chance of pulling out of this unscathed, but..." Lance trailed off, blinking his eyes rapidly. Rogue looked down and saw his hand clenching the armrest of his chair so hard, his knuckles were turning white. Placing her own gloved hand over his bare one, she forced him to let go, then gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"He'll be okay," she told him firmly. Lance nodded.

"I hope so," he replied, looking back in the direction of the operating room. "I'm still worried..."

* * * * * *

Pietro leaned back in an inflatable, plastic recliner that had 'Budweiser' stamped across the side, holding in his left hand a fine, blue paisley patterned china teacup. Raising the cup to his lips, he sipped the drink and grimaced. He found it tasted almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. Shaking off an odd feeling of deja vu and sipping the drink again, he looked over at the strange girl-like thing sitting on her stool across from him. She was no longer holding her slurpy drink, but was instead, flipping through some kind of porno magazine, occasionally making rude comments and snickering. For such a dainty looking creature, Pietro was finding her to be increasingly vulgar and rude.

"What should I call you?" he asked her, trying to break the monotony. At this, she looked up and gave him a distinct look of disgust.

"What is your obsession with naming things?" she snapped back in return, anger clearly evident in her voice.

"It's so I can make more sense of them," he explained. The girl shook her head.

"A name is meaningless. It's ridiculous. Not everything needs a name, you know."

"Fine," Pietro said, slightly exasperated. "I'll give you a name if you don't have one." He closed his eyes, thinking for a moment. "How about.... Id?"

"_Id_?" she repeated, curling her upper lip. "What kind of a name is _Id_?"

"It's from something Lance read to me once," Pietro told her, sitting up in his chair. It squeaked as he shifted his weight. "It's Freudian. Id is the subconscious, then there's the Ego and the Super Ego, but I really can't remember what those do."

"Lovely. Id. That's such a beautiful name," she said sarcastically. "Fine. If you must name me something, call me Id if it will make you happy."

"All right, Id it is," Pietro said with a smile, leaning back in his chair again. "So... read any good books lately?" Id promptly threw the porn magazine across the room, bouncing it off his head while giving him a withering look.

"What the hell kind of question is that to ask you sub-conscious," she asked him, her voice sharp with irritation.

"It's not my fault. I'm bored," he complained in return, throwing his teacup over his shoulder. It didn't make a sound. "This place is down right creepy."

"_You're bored_?" she cried, indignant. "How do you think _I_ feel? I spend all my time here!"

"What do you mean, 'here?'" Pietro asked, ignoring her tone of voice. He was starting to get used to it. "What is this place, anyway? Is this all my sub-conscious?"

"I thought we had this conversation already," she said, shaking her head again. "Yes, this is your sub-conscious. I'm your sub-conscious, the blackness is your sub-conscious, everything you see here is your sub-conscious."

"That doesn't make any sense," he replied, getting slightly annoyed. "How come my sub-conscious is so barren?"

"This is your mind as you perceive it," Id retorted. "It's not my fault it's dull. Besides, it's not really barren at all. You have some porn magazines, I'm on a wooden bar stool, your in a nice, plastic, inflatable recliner that has 'Budweiser' stamped on the side, not to mention the fine, blue-paisley patterned, china tea-cup filled with a drink that tastes almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea which you just threw over your shoulder."

"Well, yes, but those things weren't here when I first got here." Pietro pointed out. "They just sort of appeared."

"To be honest with you, this place is usually quite busy," Id finally conceded with a sigh. "Because of the mental state you're in now, there's not really a lot going on."

"That isn't very encouraging," Pietro said with a frown. Id shrugged.

"It's all right. During the day, this place is occupied with things too complex for your conscious mind to really digest - the feel of your clothes against your skin, smells in the air, snippets of conversations that you overhear, thoughts you didn't know you had, etc. Your dreams at night are all sort of overflow from this. Right now, you're in a dreamless state because of the anesthesia. There's no place else for your consciousness to go."

"Hmm... this is starting to give me a headache," Pietro replied, rubbing the left side of his head.

"No, it's probably the fact that they're cutting your head open right now that's doing that," Id said in an offhanded sort of way. Pietro glared at her for a second then closed his eyes, sinking back in his inflatable recliner. Suddenly, he smiled.

"You know," he said brightly, opening his eyes, "I just realized something."

Id now had a very thick copy of "War and Peace" out on her lap and sighed at the interruption. "What's that?" she asked.

"Well, you're talking at a normal speed and so am I. Most people say I talk too fast."

"We don't talk too fast," Id scoffed. "The rest of the world just listens way too slow."

"Finally something we agree on," Pietro replied with a grin.

* * * * * *

Fred paced restlessly in the kitchen of Todd's house, still not sure what to do. Not only was he worried about Todd's mental state - the toad-like teen had still not spoken word since the evening before - but now Fred was also very anxious about Pietro. Opening the refrigerator, more out of habit than anything else, he gazed at the various pre-prepared foods that had been brought by mourners who visited Todd while he was sitting _Shiva_. Fred frowned. Some of it he couldn't recognize. What was a 'matzoth ball' anyway? And what the heck was a 'gefilte' fish?' With a heavy sigh, Fred stepped back from the refrigerator, letting the door swing softly shut on its own power. Walking slowly across the kitchen, Fred gazed out into the living room.

Todd still hadn't moved.

The Rabbi told Fred that he shouldn't engage Todd in conversation - that the person in mourning should be the first to speak. He also said that if Todd _did_ start to talk about his mother, that Fred shouldn't change the subject. So far, Fred hadn't had to worry about that, given the fact that his friend remained stubbornly silent. Fred turned and started to walk back into the kitchen when a soft 'meow' came from behind him. Turning again, Fred smiled.

The little gray kitten he had adopted was sitting on the floor, staring at him with her big green eyes, the tip of her tail swishing back and forth across the floor. As Fred took a step towards her, the kitten crouched, then pounced, attacking his shoelaces with vigor. Fred stifled a laugh and reached down, easily sweeping the tiny animal into his large hands. From there, the kitten leapt to his shoulder, curling up near his neck, purring and occasionally swatting at his ear. With a contented sigh, Fred began to resume his trek to the kitchen, intent on finding something to feed the small creature.

"Hey, Freddy..."

Fred stopped in mid-stride, then spun around and peaked into the living room. "Todd...?" he asked warily, wondering if he had perhaps imagined his friend talking. Todd looked up at him, his chestnut colored hair falling over his eyes as he slouched backwards off the short stool he was sitting on and onto the floor.

"Freddy, grab me something to eat, will ya'?" Todd asked, putting his hands behind his head as he leaned against the edge of the nearby sofa.

"Yeah, Todd. Sure thing," Fred quickly replied. Walking over to the refrigerator, he threw it open and grabbed the first thing he could find that didn't need to be heated up - a plate of sandwiches, cut into triangles, smelling strongly of corned beef. Ripping off the plastic wrap on top of the plate, he tossed the clear plastic into the trash and closed the refrigerator door with his foot. In his other hand, he picked up two glasses and a bottle of warm cola off the counter, then walked into the living room. Todd sat up as Fred carefully put the platter on the glass-topped coffee table near where he was sitting. As his friend poured the drinks, Todd picked up one of the sandwiches, nibbling at the corner. Fred waited expectantly for Todd to speak, his nervousness over the situation actually causing him to not feel hungry - his stomach had been doing flip-flops for days it seemed. But Todd said nothing, simply munching on his sandwich, staring at the table in front of him. Fred tried hard to hold back another sigh.

Suddenly, the little gray kitten jumped off Fred's shoulder and onto the table, reaching out a little paw to knock one of the sandwiches onto the floor. Fred let out a horrified gasp as she nearly tipped a full glass of soda into Todd's lap. The large teen reached out and grasped the kitten gently by the scruff of the neck, lifting her to eye level to scold her.

"No, Igor," he told her firmly, putting his other hand underneath her back legs to balance her weight. "You bad cat. What are you trying to do?" Igor mewed in reply.

"_Igor?_"

Fred looked over at Todd, who was looking back at him, one eyebrow raised in question, a sort of half-smile on his face. Fred looked at the kitten for a moment, then shrugged, carefully putting the tiny feline on to the ground. "What's wrong with 'Igor?'" he asked, watching as the kitten stalked an imaginary prey across the floor.

"Well, that's a girl cat, isn't it?" Todd asked.

Fred shrugged again. "I guess. So?"

"Shouldn't a girl cat have a girl cat name?" Fred fixed Todd with a _look_.

"What, you think I should call her 'Fluffy' or 'Bubbles' or something?" he asked. Todd cracked a grin as the kitten suddenly jumped in his lap and started playing with the sleeve of his shirt.

"No, I guess Igor's okay," he replied, scratching the miniature fluff-ball between her ears. Igor let out a very loud and contented purr as she settled herself in for a nap. Fred worried a silence might fall between them again, but Todd let out a big sigh instead.

"I wonder if she hated me," he said softly. Fred was startled.

"You mean your mom?" Todd nodded.

"Yeah," he said with a frown. "The last thing I did was yell at her, man. It was such a stupid fight."

"But that's all it was," Fred told him firmly. "A stupid fight. We fight all the time, but it doesn't mean anything. I still know you're my friend." Todd shook his head fiercely and moved Igor onto the floor before standing up.

"I mean, I should have done more to help her," said the toady-teen, furiously pacing the length of the room. "I should have called a doctor - I shouldn't have walked out. I could tell she was gettin' sicker, but I didn't do nothin' about it! It's my fault she's dead!"

"_What_?!?" Fred gave his friend a wide-eyed look. "Are you _serious_?" Fred struggled to his feet, moving to grab Todd's shoulder, halting his angry movements. Todd spun around, glaring at his friend.

"Of course I'm serious!" he yelled. "She's dead! DEAD! And it's my fault! My fault that I was _born_, my fault that I'm some kind of _freak_, my fault that I couldn't be _normal_ like _other kids_!" Todd started to shake, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to hold back the tears that filled his eyes. "_I'm_ the one what drove her to drink and _I'm_ the one that didn't get her the help she needed!"

"Hey, you listen to me," Fred growled, grabbing both of Todd's shoulder's, forcing him to make eye contact with him. "It. Was. Not. Your. Fault. You can't blame yourself for being what you are, and you can't blame yourself for what your mom did. You did the best you could."

"Not good enough," Todd said in a defeated tone, rubbing at his traitorous eyes as his breath began to hitch with forceful sobs. "She's dead. My best wasn't good enough." He broke down, clutching the front of Fred's shirt, sobbing so hard his legs barely supported him. 

Fred was at a loss. Awkwardly, he put his arm around his friend, patting his back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. Gazing up at the cracked ceiling, he wondered how Pietro was doing, wishing he and Lance were both here to help him.

It was going to be a long day.

Copyright S. Califf, May, 2001 


End file.
